Dreamspell (19 page)

She went into his arms. The brush of her against him turned up the volume on her pulse. His warm breath on her neck and face turned it up further.

“Nay,” he murmured, “I did not do it.”

What? Then she remembered, and with remembrance came embarrassment. He had been awake last night, had watched as she clasped the chemise to her and asked a question that his answering silence had indicated he slept.

She drew a deep breath. “Well, that makes me feel better.”

“Does it?”

Why was he still holding her? “I can manage on my own, Mr. Wynland.”

He released her and nodded toward a copse of trees. “’Twill assure your privacy.”

To “relieve” herself. Lovely. Not since her failed attempt at “roughing it” as a teen had she made do without a toilet as this dream forced her to do. “Thank you.”

He smiled.

She wished he wouldn’t do that. His warming toward her was wearing a hole in her defenses and giving rise to traitorous flutterings. She made a beeline for the copse.

When she returned, a man outfitted as a soldier rode toward Wynland where he stood beside the stream. She didn’t recognize him, but since he was accompanied by one of the men Wynland had posted at the outer edge of the wood, she guessed he was a newcomer.

“Alfred,” Wynland called. “Bring you word from my brother?”

His brother? Kennedy frowned, but then she realized it wasn’t his nephews’ deceased father of whom he spoke but the disagreeable younger brother she had met at Brynwood Spire. Richard, wasn’t it?

“I do, my lord.”

Kennedy made it to Wynland’s side as the messenger reined in.

The man dismounted, grimaced as if his ride had been as long as the one that made Kennedy’s legs shaky. “My lord ordered that I deliver you this missive.”

Wynland accepted it. “Refresh yourself ere you return to Brynwood.” He jutted his chin to where his men gathered upstream. As if in no hurry to learn what was so important it had to be delivered by pony express, Wynland thumbed the wax seal, then tucked the paper into his belt. He bent to the stream and splashed cold water on his face.

“Aren’t you going to read it?” Kennedy asked.

He looked up. “When Squire James returns.”

“What does he have to do with it?”

Wynland stood. “For one who gives few answers, you ask many questions.”

“Call me inquisitive.”

He used his sleeve to wipe the water from his face. “Squire James is my reader.”

“I don’t understand.”

“When I have not my steward to read for me, as when I am gone from the castle, the task falls to James.”

Kennedy nearly dropped her jaw. “You don’t scrub your own back
and
you don’t do your own reading?”

Annoyance skittered across his face. “One by choice, Lady Lark, the other by necessity. Could I read the missive, I would.”

An old ache bubbled to her surface. “You don’t know how to read?”

He shrugged. “I ready poorly. In that there is no shame.”

Wasn’t there? Her mother had known shame, still did despite coping skills so finely honed that her second husband had yet to discover her struggle. “Do you have a learning problem?”

From his expression, it was as if she had asked if he had three heads.

“I mean, was it hard for you to learn how to read or were you just not interested?”

His annoyance returned full force. “Tell me, Lady Lark, for what do I need to read when another can do it for me?” Without waiting for an answer, he turned and began walking downstream.

Wincing at the rough ground under her thin soles, Kennedy hurried after him. “It’s surprising, that’s all.”

He turned. “Nay, that one cannot ride a horse is surprising, especially when one is of the nobility—or claims to be.”

Eager to avoid the subject, Kennedy pressed on. “It’s not too late. You could still learn to read.”

“Why?”

“Everything revolves around the written word. It’s. . .important.”

“And riding is not?”

She squirmed in her shoddy undies. “In this day and age, I suppose.”

“You live in this
day and age
. Mayhap reading is more important in Oz, but in England, ‘tis command of one’s horse that calls the battle.”

Talk about backward! He had a letter from his brother that was surely important and was held hostage by what she guessed was an unwillingness to learn how to read. “Surely someone else can read it to you?”

“There is no one.”

“No one here knows how to read?”

“Some can, but those whom I trust read no better than I.”

Interesting. Though, supposedly, these were his “men,” it seemed he was watching his back. “What about me?”

His lids narrowed. “You?”

Amazing how he could make a three-letter word ring with the reputation of one of four letters. “I can read it.”

He considered her, then held out the missive.

She broke the wax seal and unrolled to the tune of thick, black writing.
Oh no.
Though this dream had returned her health to her, it hadn’t done a thing for her far-sightedness. She squinted and found a semblance of focus only to run into another obstacle. The letter wasn’t written in English. At least, not English as she knew it. However, it did share a likeness to Shakespearean English—which she had struggled with in an undergraduate class.

“Well?” Wynland asked.

“Just a moment.”

“Did you not profess to know how to read?”

“I
do
know how to read. It’s just that the handwriting is poor.” Did that sound as unconvincing to him as it did to her? “Your brother must have been pressed for time.”

“Pressed for time. . .” Wynland shrugged. “He may have been, but ‘twas not likely he who wrote the missive.”

“So he doesn’t know how to write?”

“He does. Some.”

Kennedy lowered her gaze and landed on the word “Farfallow” near the bottom of the page. She knew the name. It was the monastery that hosted the fatal confrontation between Wynland and Sir Arthur.

“Are you going to speak my brother’s words or not?”

She swallowed. “It says, ‘Brother, I send thee—you”—she might as well translate it to her own understanding—“greetings from Brynwood Spire. We yet have. . .no word of Crosley and the children.” She affected to clear her throat while silently reading the next passage.
Though it may be naught, one of my men tells of having seen Sir Arthur in private conversation with the monk who passed the night at Brynwood Spire last month. As the monk was from the monastery of Farfallow, a day and a half ride from Cirque, mayhap you ought to stop there.

“What else does it say?”

This was
her
dream and she wasn’t about to have blood shed in it. “It. . .that. . .” As Wynland claimed to be a poor reader, meaning he managed to some degree, did she dare skip over Farfallow? If she did and he later looked at the letter, he might recognize the name and have another read it to him—unless she was able to dispose of the missive.

In your dreams
. Though he might be fool enough to let her read it, he didn’t trust her any further than that.

“Continue, Lady Lark.”

“He says all is well at Brynwood and wishes you. . .Godspeed.” As she returned the missive to him, she sent up a prayer that he wouldn’t have his squire read it.

“Thank you, Lady Lark. You have been of service to me.” He strode to his horse, patted its neck, and tucked the missive in one of the packs. “You think you could learn me to read?” he asked over his shoulder.

Though as a teen she had been determined to help her mother break the code, nearly every attempt had ended in frustration. “I don’t think so.”

A passing breeze flirted with the hair at his brow, lifted it, sifted it, sent strands into his lashes. “Still we shall try, hmm? In exchange, I shall teach you to ride.”

She nearly choked. “I don’t think so.”

“A lady ought to know how to handle a horse.”

In the words he had earlier spoken, she found a lifeline. “Why do I need to handle a horse when someone else can do it for me?”

He returned to her side and flashed that new smile that worked miracles on his scarred countenance and caused her fingers to tingle. “Because, my lady, two astride is too intimate for a man and woman who are not yet intimate. ’Tis most uncomfortable, do you not agree?”

She gulped. “Yes.”

“Then we shall begin this day. You will take the reins when we ride from here.”

“
Your
horse’s reins?” She looked to the beast. To her dismay, the horse appeared to be watching her—taunting her with those enormous wet eyes. “I don’t think this is a good idea.”

His hand closed around her arm. “First overcome fear. If you do not, it will be the horse that rides you.” His strength easily conquering her resistance, he pulled her along. “It is the most important lesson. Once you learn it, all else follows.”

Her feet skidded over the ground. “What about lunch? I’m thirsty and hungry.”

“After I have presented you to my horse.”

“We’ve already met.”

“Not properly.”

As they neared, the horse snorted.

“No fear,” Wynland spoke sharply.

“Oh, believe me”—she strained backward—“I know fear.”

“Nay, Lady Lark,
have
no fear.” He released her. “Don’t move. Just watch.” He smoothed a hand down the animal’s shoulder, moved to its head and stroked its jowl. “It has been a long day, and you have served me well, my friend.”

The horse pushed its muzzle into his palm and blew loudly.

“Aye, you have.”

How calming his voice was, almost enough to make Kennedy assume a cross-legged position.

“Know you Lady Lark?” Wynland nodded at where she stood. “She of fair face and long—very long—legs?”

They weren’t
that
long!

“She has come to meet you proper.” He put his face near the beast’s. “Be gentle now.” He motioned Kennedy forward.

She unstuck her right foot, then left.
No fear.
Wynland stepped aside when she was face to face with the horse. She swallowed hard. Though she had thought it was bad to bounce around atop the creature, this was worse.

The horse made a low “huh-huh” sound and laid an ear back.

Kennedy flashed Wynland a tight smile. “Satisfied?”

“Talk to him—calmly. As you do, move to his shoulder and smooth your hand down it.”

She took a leaden step to the side. “Nice horsie.” She grimaced when the animal turned its head to follow her. “Very nice horsie.”

“Horsie?” Wynland regurgitated.

“What’s wrong with it?”

“It lacks command.”

“You never said anything about command. You said to speak calmly. Which is it?”

Impatience lit his eyes. “Think of him as a man, Lady Lark—one from whom you require a favor. Surely you know what to do.”

Kennedy cooled her outrage with a reminder of the woman she played. “Aye, I do,” she put a medieval spin on her speech, “and very well, thank you.”

“Show me.”

She held Wynland’s gaze, lifted a hand to the horse’s shoulder, and said on a husky breath, “Hello, big boy.”

She didn’t look away when Wynland’s incredibly blue eyes turned black, when he stepped forward, when his head lowered, when his mouth closed over hers. It was as if they stared into one another, seeing what no other had seen. This time she didn’t resist. She felt his kiss through every part of her, shared his every breath, and melted.

Without realizing she had closed her eyes, she slipped her arms around his neck. He felt so real, as if she had not dreamed him into being. Feeling the rasp of his beard and moustache, she opened her mouth.

He pulled back.

She blinked and, becoming aware of raised voices, saw he had shifted his regard to something on the other side of the horse. She followed his gaze to where a fight had broken out, and for which she ought to be eternally grateful. Ought to be, though regret burrowed within her. Fulke—

What was wrong with her? He was
Wynland
, not Fulke. And it was only a kiss. Wasn’t it?

He released her and his strides ate up the distance separating him from those who thrashed on the ground.

How many were there? Three? Four? Amid grunts and curses, above the buzz of onlookers, came the gleam of a knife. Then Wynland was in the fray, throwing the men apart, a moment later standing between the two who panted at his feet—Squire James and a knight Kennedy recognized as one of Baron Cardell’s.

Here was her chance. . . Suppressing her fear of the horse, she moved along its body to a point behind the saddle and laid hands to the pack.

“Sir Waite, for what do you dishonor yourself by scrabbling with my squire?’ Wynland threw a hand toward the young man whose face bled a long thin line.